MicroHorror

Dear Vernon,

The winter in London isn’t as cold as I thought it would be. I am torn between feelings of loneliness and exhilaration at the same time. Loneliness, I feel, because I miss you, dear brother, and exhilaration due to a certain young man who arrived in our society recently.

His name is Jacques Reinhardt, quite a French first name. He is a handsome young man, and his green eyes have the hearts of all the matrons and their daughters aflutter. With his dark hair and feminine lips, he might’ve as well come out of a Renaissance painting, and his musky scent never fails to find my nose.

I know what you’re going to say, Vernon, and I disagree with you already. No man can ever be more handsome than my brother. Hush now, for this letter isn’t all about the said young man’s face. There is more to it, and I think you will find it very interesting.

By chance, I entered an antique shop three days ago. It was a dusty old place, filled with treasures waiting to be discovered. I looked around their little trinkets, you know how much I love to bring something pretty to delight our mother. When I saw a small miniature perched on an oak dresser, I almost dropped the dragonfly brooch I was holding. I am quite sure that, by now, you’ve guessed whose miniature it was.

I inquired about it, feigning interest. The owner said that the miniature must’ve been done almost fifty years ago. Can you imagine that, dear brother? A fifty-year-old miniature, but the man in it hasn’t aged a day! Miracle of miracles!

Now, at this point, I believe you’ll start accusing me of having a feverish imagination, but am I not the most rational of all your sisters? Am I not the one most likely to keep calm and return order? Well, then, believe me for my eyes told the truth. There was no doubt about it. It was Monsieur Reinhardt in the miniature.

As fate would have it, Jacques Reinhardt became one of my dance partners in the next ball I attended. He was the perfect gentleman, well-versed in the etiquette of modern society. I tried to move in time to the music, but I could not take my eyes off the man. The scent of musk was coming off him quite strongly. How was it possible that he looked the exact same way fifty years ago? Had he discovered, perhaps, some long forgotten fountain of youth?

“Are you ill, madam?” he had asked, seeing the perplexed look on my face.

“Oh, do not mind me,” I said.

At that moment, I was deciding whether to reveal my discovery of the miniature or not. My curiosity was itching to be satisfied, yet I was afraid of crossing the polite boundaries of society. In the end, my curiosity won.

“I encountered a miniature yesterday,” I said, flicking my eyes around the room, “and it was quite an impressive likeness of you. However, the owner said it was fifty years old. Why, I had thought, this is quite a marvelous coincidence. Don’t you think so too, Monsieur Reinhardt?”

Now, brother, I am about to reveal the moment when I truly believed for the first time that it really was Reinhardt’s miniature. After I spoke, Reinhardt blanched, and, when our dance finished, he bowed and walked away from me as fast as his legs could carry him. In fact, he left the ball completely. I looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Don’t you think his behavior quite suspicious?

I must end this letter now, brother. The wind has become frosty, lashing angrily against the window. The fire has also gone out. I am finding it hard to write now by the light of a single candle. I may be wrong, but I think I smell Reinhardt’s musk in the room.

Yours truly,
Louisa